Dark
by Zero.Elektronik
Summary: He'd lost count of what he'd drunk, what he'd taken. Slash. Gregory/Christophe.


**Done for the 100 theme challenge.**

**Warning: Slash and mention of Drugs.**

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**It'd been his suggestion. They'd made so much money from the last job and nothing to spend it on. Sure, they could be resources, weapons, but that's so boring. He suggested the idea of a vacation of sorts, a trip away from South Park to somewhere more suitable to their lives. Christophe didn't bother to tell his mother where he was going - he'd been driven down with the lectures on his bad habits (He didn't see his smoking or swearing or late nights coming home - if he ever came home, a bad habit) and his mother telling him "If only you were like Gregory" over and over again (If only you knew what he really did, Christophe thought). They picked the first place that screamed sex, money and violence. Las Vegas. It was full of rich folks (rarely seen in South Park), addictions (drugs, sex, gambling) and crime (hookers, murders and drug trafficking). It was perfect for them.

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They'd arrived in Las Vegas mid-day, the sun shining down, warm and pleasant. Christophe didn't bring much other than his money, his cigarettes and a well loaded gun. Gregory had been a bit apprehensive at first, but even he couldn't resist the natural allure of shiny, beautiful things. They'd spent the day going from casino to casino (it seemed Gregory had a natural luck when it came to money, they'd lost $10000 and made $50000 more), from bar to bar (Christophe loved the excuse to get drunk and not have work the next day). They picked up new friends with their newly acquired cash in their new surroundings. Gregory would sit at a roulette table, large expensive sunglasses resting in front of his eyes, his blonde hair swept back neatly, he fitted into the gambling scene perfectly; Whilst Christophe would sit at the bar counter (looking so out of place, dangerous, criminal and wonderfully irresistible), ordering various alcoholic drinks and seducing the bar staff verbally with his gravely French accent, his mischievous grin getting his drinks for free. They'd both gain more attention than they were used to, spending all their new winnings on buying whatever took their fancy at the time.

Two am. Christophe would usually be climbing out the window of his house right now, making his way to Gregory's, avoiding the Brit's parents and smoking in his neat, expensive bedroom. Instead, he was standing outside the glowing Eiffel tower (for a few drunken minutes, he'd suspected he was actually home), cigarette in hand and a drunken Brit chatting happily to fellow drunken rich folk as he stuttered. He watched how Gregory would (mid-sentence) get distracted by the lights of passing cars and buildings. The sunglasses that earlier hid his pretty blue eyes had been discarded throughout the course of the night (his neat, orange shirt covered in glitter and liquid glowing in the neon lights). They ended up attending several parties of people they didn't even know (pretty girls spoilt rich by their gambling fathers), drunken laughter and bright light invading the darkness of the night. He didn't know where Gregory had gone off to, he didn't really care. He suspected the cigarettes being passed around had something in them, but as he took a long drag and finished one, he couldn't care less (he could handle drugs, not that it was a regular thing for him). Christophe's breathing became quicker, then slower, then quicker, alternating randomly (_"Just one more fag, dude, just take another!" _from whoever was supplying them).His head slowly span, the faces and bodies around him blending into one, into the black of the night.

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He found himself next, in some room, the lights off and the window wide open. He had no time to appreciate the scenery (He couldn't even make out what was outside). A shorter, blonder, British body holding him roughly against the wall (he always had enjoyed rough, drunken sex). The two grabbing, pushing, forcing each other into the nearest object for domination, the table falling to the floor, decorations cracking as they smashed on the floor, the walls shaking. Every word out of his mouth was muttered in French (he was too tired to bother speaking English), quickly followed by more alcohol, more nicotine, more kissing and more tongue from a pretty blond boy. Gregory's neat, fancy clothes being torn and ripped (The Brit was too wasted to even protest). They fucked against the wall, the floor, the bed, over and over again until the two couldn't physically stand any longer. Bruises and burns (from the hot ash falling from his cigarette, he couldn't be bothered to move it) covering him, bites scattered on his neck and sweat and smoke sticking to his dark skin. His head spinning in a drunken (this is the last one, he said), drugged (Are you sure there's nothing in this?), nicotine (the chain smoking never usually effected him) and orgasm induced euphoria.

Another drink. He'd lost track of how much he'd been drinking (and what he'd been drinking.) He'd smoked his last cigarette, letting it burn out and the smoke invade his lungs (he still hadn't bothered trying to figure out what was in them). He could see the light shining through the huge glass window of their hotel room (he guessed It was their room. He didn't remember paying for it, though) shining off the walls. It wasn't as bright as earlier (his vision was cloudy merging everything into one), and he found it hard to distinguish between white bed sheet, white carpet, white falls. It took him a while to realise there'd been a blackout, the light shining from outside was the dim glow of car headlights (and the moon, but that was hidden by the skyline of tall buildings).He lay on the bed next to the sleeping blond, listening to his breaths and the light fall onto him. His own body ached, (it hurt like a bitch), his head pounding on and on (this could be the loud music from next door, he told himself). And then, everything went dark.

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End file.
